The Ebb and Flow of Things
by The Wonk
Summary: This is my take on what would of happened if Keitaro and Motoko did get married. It's dramatic, it's pretty sad, and messed up. Read on if you wish. Reviews are welcomed. Oh, and it does get some graphic, so if you're sensitive, don't read this.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Love Hina. This is a piece of frivolous fan fiction and is meant to entertain only.

**Author's Note:**

So as you can tell, I love Motoko. There are just so many dimensions to this character that I want to explore in my writings. I only hope you can bear with me as I unload myself of all these Motoko stories. To give you folks an understanding of what I'm trying to achieve. I have written four stories so far: Absolution, A Second Chance for Love, A Story of Revenge, and this one. Each story explores love, hate, redemption, and loss through the Motoko lens. I hope you enjoy.

**The Ebb and Flow of Things**

A beautiful woman stood and watched as the sun descended below the Kyoto skyline. Her raven black hair, caught by the rising winds, danced around her. In her hand was a picture of a new-born baby girl. The night sky settled in; the full moon blanketing the city below with its pale glow.

Under the moonlight, Tsuroko Aoyama wept silently as she languished in her misery. "Why was I so foolish?" she cried out, letting her tears flow unabated. She wanted to scream and lash out – her anger in need of release – but she had no foe or target to attack. She was alone; pain was her only companion.

Two strong arms gently wrapped themselves around her shoulders. Tsuroko felt the gentle warmth engulfing her, rescuing her from misery's grip. "Why don't you go to her Tsuroko?" the man holding her asked. Looking towards the moon, she sighed, "Husband, I promised to stay away from her and I will not break that promise." As she uttered those words, Tsuroko's emotions broke through her defenses, tearing asunder her resolve. She collapsed to her knees, pounding the ground with her fists.

"Why does it have to be this way?" she choked out the words, struggling to keep from losing herself to the grief. Tsuroko's husband rushed to her, saying nothing at first. He held her in his arms, gently stroking her back, trying to soothe her. She sobbed into his shoulder, drenching his shirt with her tears. There under the moon, they sat enmeshed in one another's arms.

Tanaka Yasuhiro did not belong in Tsuroko's world, where the traditions and customs of feudal Japan lived on. He was raised as a Catholic, received his formal education in America, and worked as a tech consultant for a European firm operating in Japan – he was of the new breed of men and women emerging from the globalized world.

He viewed the ancient customs and traditions of his people as anachronistic and incompatible with the demands of the modern era – that was until he met her. It was a chance encounter, but a moment that would change his life forever. He was in a rush that day to get to work. Reaching a street corner, Tanaka remembered that he had left his wallet behind at the diner where he ate breakfast. Braking fast, he whirled around, getting ready to run back to the diner when he collided into someone. Instantly, he shifted his momentum to propel his body backwards to avoid the full-on collision, leaving him vulnerable as he careened towards the unforgiving concrete below. He clenched his eyes shut, bracing for the pain to come, but it never did. Yasuhiro's eyes flew open as he felt his momentum stop in mid-air. What he saw surprised him. A beautiful woman, dressed in a traditional kendo garb was holding him, preventing him from falling. He blushed as he met the woman's gaze. "You're beautiful," he gasped, causing the woman to blush.

A month later, they were married. Tanaka was happy with Tsuroko, but was pained to see her live her life in such confounding ways. Her relationship with her sister had been strained – almost non-existent – for the past few years. His wife never spoke of how their relationship had been marred – only that it was a matter of honor. Tanaka had often thought that his wife's blind obedience to tradition and honor to be foolish, but he would never openly criticize her way of life. Instead, he bore witness to the quiet death consuming her soul.

Lost in his own thoughts, Tanaka had not notice his wife's tears subsiding. It was the sharp push of his body being thrust backwards that snapped him from his daze. He felt the whole length of his wife's body pressing down on him, her silken black hair filling his nostrils with her scent. His desires ceased the moment he heard her words whispered into his ear, "I want to confess husband." Tanaka finally understood the depth of his wife's pain – the evidence made clear in her voice. He draped his arms over her and made ready for the confession that Tsuroko had kept buried within her for these past three years.

"I just wanted my sister to be happy," Tsuroko said, as she began her tale.

"Sister, what are you doing here?" stuttered Motoko. Arriving home from school, Motoko had not expected her older sister to be waiting for her back at the Hinata Sou. Tsuroko, sitting in the company of Keitaro Urashima and the other residents, replied, "Is that any way of greeting your sister Motoko?"

Motoko was to inherit and take charge the Aoyama's school of swordsmanship: the Shinmeiryu. Tsuroko, the former heir-apparent and leader of the Aoyama clan, was denied the position when she had married Yasuhiro. Shortly after her marriage, Motoko left home to continue her training. After three long years, Tsuroko wanted her beloved sister home and meant to bring her back with her.

Motoko would have none of it. She felt unprepared for the clan leadership or the prospect of being sovereign over her elder sister. But mostly Motoko was afraid of failing Tsuroko and the family legacy. Desperation ran through the younger Aoyama's mind as Tsuroko dragged Motoko towards the exit.

With surprising strength, Motoko broke free from her sister's clutches, and ran towards Urashima. Holding on to his arm, she yelled out, "Sister, I cannot leave, because I am going to marry this man."

Keitaro stood gaping at Motoko's words, the air forced from his lungs. "Then, I guess you will not be coming home Motoko. I believe congratulations are in order," Tsuroko responded cheerfully.

The seeds of Tsuroko's long torment had been sowed. She had seen through Motoko's hastily crafted deception, but rather than end the charade, Tsuroko chose to follow along. She believed that the will of heaven had granted her an opportunity to strengthen her sister's will, all that she needed to do was exploit the situation. It was a plan fated to go awry.

How she cursed her decision that day. Tsuroko unveiled Motoko's lie in the hot springs of the Hinata Sou, forcing her sister to fight a duel that she had no hope of winning. In defeat, Tsuroko hoped that Motoko would find renewed strength and vigor to unlock her untapped potential. She had hoped that through this trial, Motoko would be able surpass her in skill and ability.

Instead, she broke her sister's spirit.

"You are banned from the training dojo Motoko. Cast aside your sword and live as a normal school girl," Tsuroko declared, hovering above her defeated sister. Motoko heard those words ringing in her ears. The rain began to pour down, enveloping her in a cold shroud. All she felt was the void consuming her very essence.

Keitaro placed a towel over the naked girl, her covering torn asunder by Tsuroko's attack. "Let's get you out of the rain Motoko," Keitaro said gently. "Where will I go now, Keitaro, I have no home to call my own," Motoko whispered, starting to shiver from the realization.

"You can stay here as you long as you like Motoko, the Hinata Sou and I will always be here for you," he replied, easing her off the ground. Looking up to meet his gaze, Motoko, her eyes wide and trembling, asked, "Will you be there for me Keitaro?"

The next day, Motoko attempted to live the life of a normal woman. She took to the chores with a renewed sense of purpose. "I shall be the best woman I can be," she declared to herself as she made breakfast for her friends in the Hinata Sou.

Unfortunately, the zeal in which Motoko applied herself adversely affected her friends. The strict regiment that Motoko adhered to was a lifestyle not shared by any of her fellow residents. Her sense of self, along with her pride, crumbled as she overheard her friends criticize her newfound ways.

"Motoko has gone too far, replacing my sake with vinegar. I mean, who the hell does she think she is, Martha Stewart," Kitsune cried out. "She is going overboard Keitaro, we have to do something," Shinobu lamented. "What was she wearing? It looked like something out of a costume party," Sarah threw out. "Motoko's no lady," Su gleefully added. "Yeah, I know guys, but we have to give her some time, okay," responded Keitaro, trying to placate his tenants concerns.

The impromptu war council was interrupted by Motoko's high-pitch wail, as she ran away crying. Keitaro gave chase. Desperate and lost in her own grief, Motoko miscalculated her steps and fell to the ground. Keitaro, seeing her fall, leapt to catch her, but managed only to pull down her panties. Horrified that Keitaro had seen her most guarded of places, struck him with a devastating uppercut that sent him flying into the stratosphere.

Motoko wandered the streets of Hinata Springs, the night rain drenching her to the bone. She felt the desolation threatening to devour her. She had failed as a warrior and now a woman. Even the mangy dog that bit her had rejected her.

She longed for sweet oblivion. Motoko slumped to the ground, allowing the cold rain to wash over her. "Wash me away rain," Motoko prayed silently. When she felt a pause in the falling rain, Motoko looked up. There stood Keitaro, holding an umbrella over her. Before she could find her words, Keitaro knelt down and offered her a jacket. "C'mon Motoko, let's go home," he said gently, holding his free hand out for her to grab. "Keitaro," she replied, taking his hand into her own.

Keitaro eased her up, holding the umbrella over her. He then draped her coat over her shoulders and wrapped his free arm around her body, trying to warm the now shivering girl. Motoko placed her head on his shoulder, wanting to feel his warmth. Keitaro was nervous at first. He had never been this close to a girl, an especially beautiful one at that. He could smell the faint traces of her shampoo over the musty wetness of the falling rain. It excited him, as did the feel of her body pressing against him.

"Not now, you pervert," Keitaro screamed in his mind, "you have to help Motoko." As they walked, side by side, Motoko's mind journeyed through her memories. She remembered the day that she first met Keitaro. It was also raining on that day. She thought he was just another perverted male, but she felt drawn to him. She even came to believe that she was in love with him. Motoko realized later her symptoms of love were in truth nothing more than the ravages of the common cold. "It was just a cold, right?" Motoko asked herself. But doubt seeped in Motoko's thoughts.

"Keitaro is a good man."

Motoko was surprised that her thoughts could produce such a positive sentiment for the man she had labeled a pervert and a weakling. But she could not deny the truth – Keitaro possessed a kind soul. He had gone along with her lie to protect her, even though he risked alienating his one true love – Naru Narusegawa.

Her chest tightened. "What is this feeling?" wondered Motoko, "Could I be jealous?"

Motoko was still lost in her reverie when she finally became aware that they were standing in Keitaro's room. "Here, you can wear my shirt for now," Keitaro said as he pulled out a long-sleeve button down from his closet. "I'll get us some hot tea, while you dry yourself off and change," he added, leaving the room.

She stood silently, not knowing what to do. "I guess I should dry off," she said to no one in particular. She disrobed in a slow and methodical manner, folding each article of clothing as she went. The thought of being naked in Keitaro's room frightened the ebony haired girl, but slowly, she began to acclimate to her surroundings. She paused, allowing her feelings to manifest as she stood naked amongst his possessions. A warm sensation emerged from the bleakness that had reigned in Motoko's heart. A faint smile broke from her desolate expression before receding back into the maelstrom of her emotions. The moment passed and Motoko began drying her body with a towel. Once finished, she picked up his shirt from off the floor and began to put it on. The feel of the fabric on her skin sent shivers up Motoko's spine. She caught Keitaro's scent in the lining and breathed deep, much to her surprise. She continued to suffer, but being in his presence somehow eased her pain.

Keitaro slid the door open, escaping Motoko's notice. He found Motoko sitting on his floor, drying her hair with his towel. Her legs were visible from underneath his shirt. Keitaro was taken back at the surprisingly alluring sight of Motoko in such a pose. His eyes focused on Motoko's long, sinewy legs. They were the picture of both power and elegance. "Whew, I'm glad Motoko didn't catch me staring at her legs," Keitaro thought to himself. "Here's some hot tea to warm you up," Keitaro spoke, handing her a hello kitty mug. Motoko was startled to find that Keitaro had entered the room without her notice, but did not show it. She turned to face him, her eyes peering from beneath the terry cloth, and took the warm drink into her hands. Motoko then replied in a quiet voice, "thank you."

Summing up her courage, Motoko once again spoke. "I have to apologize to you Keitaro. I've been calling you a pervert, a loser, and a weakling, but in truth, you are none of these things. I've been the one who's been weak." Keitaro sat close to Motoko, hearing every one of her words. He was touched at the heart-felt apology, but did not want Motoko to carry on with the self-abuse. "It's okay Motoko," offering his smile to her, "I know that you don't mean anything by it."

Motoko could not believe how kind his heart seemed. She had assaulted him, made trivial his dreams, and still, he stood by her. Feeling her strength collapsing, she lunged towards him, pleading, "Please, don't be so nice to me!" Keitaro was caught unprepared for Motoko's emotional outburst. She wrapped her arms around him, crying into his body. He could feel her warmth infuse into him, her scent drifting onto his tongue, almost tasting her essence.

He panicked. Keitaro could feel his lust taking root. The vulnerability that Motoko had displayed only served to accentuate her natural beauty. He wanted her, but his conscience resisted his baser desires bitterly.

The same emotions echoed in Motoko's heart. She could feel his heart beating, threatening to burst from the chest cavity. His musk clung to her nostrils, igniting a long dormant passion. She wanted him in all the ways a woman could want a man.

Motoko lifted her head and met his gaze. Their eyes locked. With trembling lips, she approached him. Keitaro could feel her breathe as she neared his face, electrifying his senses. His conscience cried out, seeking to end his descent into sin. He resisted, pausing slightly in his own movements. Motoko sensed his hesitation and became embolden by it. She closed the distance between them, placing her lips against his.

Waves of bliss swept over Motoko's body as her kiss melted into his. For so long, Motoko had denied herself intimacy and pleasure, believing them to be weaknesses that she could not afford. She cursed herself for being so foolish.

Suddenly, almost violently, Keitaro tore his lips away from Motoko's. "We can't do this…," he uttered before Motoko shoved him to the ground. Keitaro had no time to respond. Motoko was on top of him, ramming her tongue into his mouth.

The curious sensation flickering along his tongue aroused a deep hunger within him. Letting go of his inhibitions, Keitaro gave in to his baser instincts and started to caress Motoko's thighs, his hands beckoning her to continue the passionate onslaught.

The night melted away as two lovers, caught in the waves of bitter ecstasy, experience both the joys and anguish of truest intimacy.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Morning After **

Motoko had given into the rapture that had consumed her, leaving behind the pain and suffering of her defeat at the hand of her older sister. As she lay there, panting, spent, her mind was only focused on the enclosing darkness, his scent still lingering in her nostrils. Then there was nothing.

Daylight tore through the linen curtains of Keitaro's room, rudely forcing Motoko from her sweet slumber. As she awoke, a cascade of images flooded her mind: the cold dark rain, Tsuroko's sword smashing through her much beloved blade, the mongrel dog and the wound left behind by its teeth, and finally, Keitaro with his deep soulful eyes. It was the eyes that soothed her troubled soul. The pain and anguish she experienced, welling up inside of her, slowly receded as she focused on those eyes, belonging to the man for whom she had for so long ridiculed and abused. She then noticed a warm and soft sensation seeping into her consciousness. Opening her eyes, braving the bleak, she saw an image blurred by sleep. But slowly, as her vision focused, she spied the rhythmic rise and fall of a man's chest.

Her morality demanded that she lash out in righteous fury, but the deep hunger within her subdued the compulsion, causing her arms to tighten their hold on the man. Motoko had cast aside her reason and logic; instead, she sought shelter in the feeling of safety that she found in the man lying next to her.

How long she lay there with him, awake, she could not tell, nor did she care, her only thought being a vain hope that the moment would never end. So there they remained, timeless, and distant in their own little world.

Breaking her from her thoughts, Motoko felt the slight tremors of his musculature reacting to the electrical impulses that began to explode throughout Keitaro's body as he began to wake. Unlike the young woman next to her, Keitaro had no rush of memories to remind him of the night before, only the dull ache of lying supine for so long.

It was the feel of a warm body pressing against his own that spurred Keitaro's mind into inquiry. As his brain attempted to decipher the curious signals that it was receiving from the dermis, a small twitch in the deep recesses of his biology struggled to make itself known. This twitch had been there long before the dawn of man, born from the random juxtaposition of genetics and the environment, passed down through the generations. It had been one of the first devices that enabled life to understand the world around it – the bridge that linked the outside world of stimuli to the internal dimension of sensation. So important was its function that the twitch had become instinct – a reflexive action.

The twitch, at first, bound itself to compulsion. It directed life to sources of nourishment. As time progressed and life evolved, the twitch pared itself to other functions. When memory came into being, the twitch saw survival in its pairing. Thus from the rise of sentience, came the bond between our sense of smell and memories, the conjunction between life's oldest and newest adaptations.

So powerful is this bond that only a few molecules are needed to elicit a reaction, the twitch that rouses the mind to remember – even of events long since passed. For Keitaro, this twitch brought with it images of a young girl with raven black hair and emerald green eyes, her scent reminding him of a myriad of pleasurable sensations.

Cognition, however, is a double-edge sword. As his mind began to access the sensations associated with her scent, awakening the primal urges that lay within, it also brought with it memories. Pain, another ancient function, made itself known as Keitaro began to relive the memories of Motoko's fearsome attacks, the nauseating sensation of soaring through the sky seemingly ever present.

And in the span of only a few seconds, Keitaro realized that he was in bed – naked – with Motoko – who was also naked – and that they had done something the night before that was wrong – though not completely regrettable. After coming to this realization, Keitaro's first response was to panic. And like any panic stricken creature, he wanted to run.

Motoko could feel his body react physiologically to his mood. She could sense the perspiration, the increasing heat emanating from his body, and the tension building in his muscles. Motoko's years of physical training had taught her the mysteries of the human body. She knew full well that Keitaro was experiencing panic – a feeling that she had almost succumb to the night before – and that he would soon seek escape.

Her reaction was immediate. Motoko wrapped her legs around his torso and her arms lashed across his chest. She then buried her face into the side of his chest. Keitaro was startled by her actions, not knowing why she had locked onto him in such an intimate fashion.

But before he could speak or raise protest, Motoko blubbered: "please stay."

Keitaro was speechless; the raw emotions behind her words struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. In the short time that he knew her, Keitaro had never seen Motoko sound so weak and miserable. She was like a wounded animal, proud and still possessing grace, but seemingly more wretched for it now in this state.

He wanted to stay and comfort her, but every fiber of his being told him that he was in the wrong and needed to extricate himself from her. Motoko, sensing his lingering turmoil, tightened her hold on him with even greater force, forcing the intimates of her body to compress against his, eliciting both fear and excitement in the near catatonic Keitaro.

Minutes passed, slowly at first for Keitaro, but eventually, he lost all track of time. Though he appeared calm, his mind was restive, struggling to find the best course of action to snap Motoko out of her fugue state and putting right what had been wronged.

It was the tears that solidified his resolve. He could fear a warm wetness beginning to trickle down his chest, the sound of Motoko's muffled cries ringing in his ears, the feel of her body convulsing as her diaphragm began to spasm. Keitaro, finding courage in his new found resolve, began to speak. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay as long as you want me to stay."

At first, Motoko seemed unfazed by his words. Keitaro struggled to think of something else, when he felt her grip on him slackened. Instinctively, he reached up and began to caress her arm, trying to soothe the still quivering mass of tears and self-loathing.

With new vigor, Keitaro continued, "I don't know what's going to happen Motoko, after we leave this room, but I want you to know that I'm going to keep my promise to you. I won't rest until I help you find your happiness again."

And like any man truly blessed with a kind and gentle heart, Keitaro managed to find the right words to comfort the distraught girl. It was the earnestness in his voice that restored, partially at least, her hope.

Feeling Motoko's mood lighten, Keitaro began to gently coax the young girl off of him. At first, Motoko resisted, reasserting her tenacious grip, but Keitaro, patiently and calmly guided her arms off of his body. Supporting her shoulders, he eased her up so that she was sitting next to him, her eyes never wavering from his own.

Keitaro, trying to be a gentleman, could not help but notice how beautiful she was, her nude form revealed to be as perfect and flawless as he had imagined it to be. Without warning, Keitaro chuckled. Motoko was perturbed by this, her expression hiding none of her displeasure. Recognizing potential danger, Keitaro explained, "yesterday, I'd probably be soaring through the atmosphere right now if I saw you like this.

Motoko could not help but laugh at the truthfulness of his observation and the absurdity of the movement. She had been a man-hater for most of her life, but now found herself in the intimate company of one. Stranger still was that she had no regrets for what had transpired between them. True, she had given her chastity to a man – a man not her husband, but she could no longer deny that she was in love with him.

She had needed him the night before, not just because she needed to be comforted, but because she needed to be honest with herself for once in her life. Motoko had always stood in the shadow of lies. Though she had professed to be a proud warrior who would fervently seek the title of headmaster of the Shinmeiryu style, Motoko felt too weak and cowardly to ever accept the mantle.

She was no Tsuroko, a near legend of her school and clan. It was Tsuroko, not Motoko that deserved to sit as leader of their dojo. The question of why had fate bestowed such an honor to an unworthy student like herself caused Motoko much heart ache. But she was a warrior, and warriors do not bend to their emotions: a lie that she was able to shed before this man.

Keitaro noticed that Motoko was in deep thought. Realizing that she was still naked, he, in wanting to preserve her dignity, began to wrap his sheet around her shoulders. The enveloping sensation broke Motoko from her contemplative state. After realizing what he was doing for her, Motoko offered him a gentle smile in return. "Thank you," she whispered in a hushed voice.

Keitaro, covering his own nakedness with a pillow, responded with a smile of his own. What came next was a silence that hung in the room like a heavy quilt. Both knew that life was forever changed for them – there would be no going back. It was Motoko who broke the silence. "If you wish for me to leave the Hinata Sou…"

But before she could finish, Motoko was silenced by his touch. Keitaro had reached out and took hold of her hand. In truth, Motoko was relieved by this. She had felt diminished when they broke physical contact, but the tenderness of his touch had restored some vigor to her downtrodden spirit. "This is your home Motoko. I would never ask you to leave."

Motoko felt new tears emerge, but this time, it was from the happiness that she felt from hearing his reassurance. The happiness, however, was short-lived, when she realized that they had broached the one subject that neither had the stomach to discuss. What about Naru?

The former swordmistress knew of Keitaro's love for her friend – it was the worst kept secret at the Hinata Sou. Keitaro, a clumsy man by nature, seemed even more predisposed to bad luck and buffoonery whenever the young Tokyo U. aspirant was around - a sure sign of love. Motoko had always viewed him with suspicion and contempt for it, his obvious infatuation with Naru had been a sore spot for her, but she had always chalked it up to her philosophy. She realized, however, that it was jealousy.

Over the brief time that she had known him, Keitaro Urashima had somehow crept into her heart. It was his kindness and incredible fortitude that served as her undoing. No matter how fierce her attacks were, he would not relent. He would come back, from wherever that he flew to, with a caring smile and a gentle disposition.

How can such a man exist in an age of cynicism?

It was how he was able to win their hearts and eventually their love.

That too was a terribly kept secret. Only Keitaro seemed to be in the dark. The first to fall in love with him was Shinobu, but she was also the one most honest with herself. Kitsune was the next, though she would never admit it. It was the way she looted him - she only looted from the ones she cared about. Motoko was unsure when she had fallen for the bumbling manager.

"Perhaps at the bridge when he touched me," she thought remembering the odd sensation that emanated from the spot where his hand had landed.

It was Naru, however, that posed the mystery. She was always there for him, serving as his staunchest defender, aside from Shinobu, but she was also the first to attack him. For every kind word she had for him, there were several dozen accusations and insults that followed. How can that be love?

But for reasons that escaped Motoko, Keitaro loved her, there was no denying that terrible truth.

As she continued her deep contemplation, Keitaro struggled to piece together the puzzle that had been last night. True, he had found her very attractive when they first met, but he had no romantic inclination towards the traditionalist. She was too elegant and graceful for a humble man like Keitaro. Her proclivity towards violent also influenced his opinion of the girl. Though he respected her tremendously, Keitaro was always leery of people who wielded power - especially the violent ones.

But he loved Naru and she was the most violent one of them all. Thinking of her gave him pause. Keitaro couldn't remember when exactly he fell in love with her, but he could not deny it now. Yes, she was violent, but she also possessed an amazing heart. She was the first female, other than relatives, to truly stand up for him. He remembered with fondness of how Naru attempted to cover for him when the others though he was a Tokyo U. student. He could also recount the long hours that she had spent with him, tutoring him on subjects that he once viewed as arcane sorcery.

He loved Naru, and so felt the guilt of betraying her even though there was nothing to betray, so he told himself. They weren't dating and Naru always maintained that their relationship was purely platonic. Looking over to Motoko, Keitaro was struck by how beautiful she was. Her lustrous ebony hair seemed to flow down her lithe figure like gentle waterfalls, accentuating curves that had been hidden behind the traditional garb of a kendoist.

As he allowed his mind to drift in thought, the memories of their time together began to dance in Keitaro's head; the imagery almost intoxicating. Suddenly, the fantasy playing out in his imagination came crashing down as he remembered the state that she had been in when he found her, shivering and drenched by the falling rain.

It was the feel of her body, pressing against his that had snapped him out of his trance. Looking down, he saw the top of Motoko's head pressing against his chest. He still could not believe the state they were in, nor could he truly grasp that they had become lovers.

Where was her contempt, her cold exterior? He needed the old Motoko now more than ever, because the girl pressing against him was starting to make him feel something that he should not be feeling.

"I love Naru," he mentally screamed, trying to placate his rising doubts. But Naru had always been distant, cold. Motoko, in this moment, was anything but. The warmth of her body, the tenderness of her touch, it was all that he had ever craved.

Not just sex, but intimacy.

"God I'm a woman," he sighed quietly, too low for Motoko to hear.

Motoko was also screaming in her mind, trying to convince her body to walk away. "You cannot show weakness to a man, especially this weakling."

Her body paid no attention.

"Naru is our friend, we cannot possibly do this."

Her hand slowly reached out for his.

"What are you doing? You're acting like a harlot!"

She brought his fingers to her lips, lightly kissing each digit.

"Where did you learn to do that? Do not forget that you're an Aoyoma!"

Her kisses began to move away from his fingers to his chest, drifting higher.

"He loves her – not you! You'll just be a notch on his bedpost. Is that what you want?"

Is this what you want?

Motoko looked up and wanted to find the answer in his eyes. What she saw was doubt. She could see him struggling between the passion that was erupting between them and the love that remained in his heart. It was enough for Motoko.

If there is doubt, she thought, than there is hope. In that moment, Motoko made a decision. She would do all that she could to be by his side – win or lose – she would not just let him go.

"I'm sorry Naru," they both thought, before giving into their passion.

Meanwhile, in the next room, Kitsune awoke to the sound of something that sounded familiar and yet was as alien to her as it had been for Keitaro.

"Is that Motoko giggling?"


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Wow…this is graphic, but not as graphic as others. As for updates…who knows? Thanks for the reviews. I'll try to actually spell check my work and make it longer next time. **

**Chapter 3**

Mitsune Konno, Kitsune to her friends, lived an unfortunate life, though you would not know it from her carefree, almost lackadaisical attitude towards – well – everything. It was only Keitaro and Naru who noticed those rare moments when the glint in the fox lady's eyes would dim – ever so slightly – revealing a pain that few could understand.

Neither ever spoke of it or approached Kitsune, which is how she preferred things. The past is immutable after all; thinking of it just brought back painful memories

At the age of 5, she watched helplessly as her father, a drunken and broken down man, walked out the door to their shabby apartment for the last time.

"Where is daddy going?" she asked her mother, a tall lanky woman with silver white hair. Trying to stifle her tears, the older Konno knelt down beside her daughter and smiled. "He's going on a long trip," she replied, her voice quivering.

Life was harder after that. Unable to bear with the loneliness, her mother sought comfort in the company of men and hard drinks. There were an endless parade of men entering their home, each more lecherous and unbecoming than the next. Each morning, Mitsune's routine was to clean up the bottles and cans that were strewn across the floor, shew away the lascivious drunks and to prod her often slumbering mother to go to work. It was a hell that stunk of stale cigarette smoke, liquor, and sex.

"You can't take much more of this," Mitsune sighed as she examined her mother's near naked form, her suitor long gone. "You have to take better care of yourself. I won't be around forever you know," she chided the silent woman. As Mitsune walked over to her mother's night stand, she noticed something. A chill ran down her spine.

Next to her mother's alarm clock was a picture that Mitsune thought had long been destroyed. It was a picture of her father, holding her when she was a baby: Father and daughter smiling, waving to the person holding the camera. It was then she noticed the opened bottle of pills and a note, neatly folded with the words: "To my daughter."

Mitsune was frozen in fear, her mind trying to push out the conclusion that had formed in her thoughts. She looked over to her mother and for the first time, began to see her. She was still, unnaturally still. Mitsune's pupils began to constrict, focusing her vision. Her mother had always been pale, but her complexion was now a sickly pallor. With a trembling hand, Mitsune reached out to touch her mother's cheek.

On contact, she pulled her hand away as if burnt by a flame. "So cold," she stuttered, holding her hand as if it had been infected with leprosy. She knew that her mother was dead. Crumbling to the floor, she began to weep. "You selfish bitch," she sobbed. Mitsune Konno was now truly alone.

The funeral had been short. Few attended the memorial. There was her uncle, an old man more interested in Mitsune's developing body than the deceased woman in the casket. There was also Granny Hina, a friend of the family. At the end of the service, the old lady approached her.

"My dear child, I'm sorry for your loss," she began to say, but Mitsune cut her off with a curt, "thank you." Undaunted, Granny Hina pushed on, trying to reach the young girl. "I was a friend of your mother. I use to be her nanny many years ago. I knew that she had fallen on hard times, and I am sorry that I could not help her more. But I know that I can help you, if you'll let me."

Mitsune didn't hear a word of it. She was too far gone. The authorities had remanded her to the custody of her uncle and though she knew him to be lecherous, Mitsune didn't care.

She had become numb to the world. "Let him do whatever to me, it's not like it matters."

Seemingly reading her thoughts, Granny Hina responded, "It matters to me." Mitsune eyes widened, her fugue state broken by the old woman's words. "What?" she responded. Taking her hand, Granny Hina replied, "It matters to me what happens to you. That's why I don't want you to live with that terrible man over there. If you wish it, you can come and stay with me."

It had been so long since she heard anyone speak to her with such affection, as if she was actually a person – a living breathing person who mattered. Mitsune broke down, weeping into the arms of the elder. "There, there, girl. It's okay. You're with family now."

Seeing that the old crone was about to take away his new sex toy, Kochiro was about to grab Mitsune when he felt an incredible crushing pressure on his right shoulder. Turning his head, he saw a young woman standing behind him, her hand gripping his clavicle.

She was tall, beautiful, and dangerous. Trapped between her two luscious lips was a lit cigarette, its burning embers highlighting the fire burning in her eyes. "I know what you're thinking," the woman purred, "but it's not going to end like you think it is."

Kochiro was never heard from again.

A year later, Mitsune found herself standing in front of her mother's grave. Granny Hina had given her a good home; a place where she felt safe and was able to find a friend – perhaps a sister one day. But the wounds she carried in her heart still ran deep and no amount of love or friendship – so she thought – could ever heal them.

"Mitsune," a voice called out to her.

Her eyes widened as she recognized the voice. She was only a child the last they talked, but a daughter could never forget the sound of her father – even if he was the man who betrayed her and her mother.

Turning around, she saw a man, withered and frail. She could see the tears streaming down his eyes, his hand trembling. "I'm so sorry Mitsune, I never meant for any of this to happen," he stuttered, trying to keep his composure. But before he could say anything else, Mitsune raised her arm, her hand signaling him to stop.

He could not see her expression as her long silver bangs covered her face. He could tell she was crying, the tears glistening from the noonday sun. Suddenly, the young girl before him had changed. She was no longer shaking. She raised her head and revealed to him a face devoid of any emotions – her eyes seemed vacant, soulless. As her arm lowered, Mitsune spoke, "The day my mother died, so did my father."

And with that, she walked away, leaving behind a broken man, brought to his knees by grief and guilt. As she neared the cemetery gate, Mitsune heard a gun shot in the direction of her mother's grave. She paused, her expression revealing no emotion. After a moment, she walked forward, not looking back.

A few minutes later, she found a bar and let herself in. Plopping down on the bar stool, she slammed her fist on the table and yelled out, "whiskey." The bartender was amused by the actions of the minor who deemed herself worthy of one of his drinks. As he approached, he noticed the girl undoing the top button of her blouse, revealing two large mounds of flesh, pressed together by a black lace bra.

"No service to minors," he chirped, trying to tear his eyes from the girl's endowments. With a seductive purr, she lower her body, allowing the man to see further down her blouse. Drawn in by her allure, the bartender inched closer, knowing that he was in the wrong. When he was within in range, Mitsune slowly extended her hand, clutched a piece of his shirt, and slowly drew him in, like a fisherman wheeling in his catch.

He was so close to the young bombshell that he could smell her shampoo – it was the scent of lavender – and the feel of hot wet breath against his ear. She whispered hungrily, "Now, do I look like a minor?" Trying to stave off the lust rumbling in his loins, the bartender tried to step back, but Mitsune would have none of that.

She brought him in closer, and forcefully applied her lips to his. The bartender felt lightheaded, hot, and ready to explode. Feeling her prey melt in her hands, she broke from the kiss and with a wink purred, "now how about that drink?" The bartender, still fazed by the kiss, could only nod dumbly to the request. Bringing out a bottle of whiskey, he poured her a shot of the amber liquid.

He watched in amazement as she shot the hard liquor down without even a flinch. Slamming the shot glass down, she looked into his eyes and demanded another…and another…and another. After the third shot of whiskey, the bartender regained some of his stoic composure and said, "Haven't you had enough?"

Mitsune wanted to chop off his head for stopping the flow of liquor, but her brain had not been completely subdued by the alcohol. There was one more thing she needed from him – the man who resembled all the other men that her mother would bring home. She reached over to him and grabbed his shirt by the collar.

The man was surprised by her sudden action, but followed along, not knowing what else to do. Mitsune then got up from her stool and walked slowly towards the end of the bar, the bartender in tow. "Leave the bottle," she said, which he complied.

She led him to the backroom. She threw him to the ground, his head hitting the back wall. Before he knew what was happening, the bartender felt an oppressive weight fall on top of him. He felt his hand being maneuvered onto soft mounds of flesh. He squeezed instinctively, eliciting a soft moan from the tigress straddling him.

It was every bartender's fantasy, being manhandled by a young – albeit under aged – attractive girl and forced to copulate in the back room of their establishment. However, the fantasy came to crashing halt when, in the middle of the throes of passion, the young girl broke down into angry tears.

She pounded his chest with her fists, leaving behind bruises that he would have to explain to his wife later that night. The tears came streaming down, soaking his faded t-shirt. It wasn't love. It wasn't even sex. The bartender was just an object to her and he knew it, something to numb the pain that she was obviously experiencing.

If it wasn't for the sensations erupting from his groin, he would have felt pity for the girl.

When it was over, Mitsune stood up and adjusted her clothes. After taking a rag that she found on a nearby table, she cleaned herself up the best she could, while the man continue to lie on the floor, not believing what had just happened to him.

As she was walking out the door, the bartended called out, "I don't even know your name?" Mitsune stopped, but did not look back. "It's Kitsune," she said, before walking out of the bar, but not before she took the bottle of whiskey that sill lay on the counter.

"Fox," the bartender muttered, still wheeling from the experience, "take care of yourself."

Standing outside, the bottle in hand, Kitsune wanted to lash out and push down the incredible emptiness that seemed to pervade every inch of her body. She felt dirty, angry, and worst yet, alone.

With a roar, she threw the bottle down and watched as the glass splintered against the unforgiving concrete. "No!" she sobbed through gritted teeth, trying to choke back the tears. "I won't be like you mother!"

It had been years since that day, the day she swore she would never become like her mother. Kitsune Konno was a new woman. She was going to enjoy life, live for the now, forget the past. She was going to have fun – the fun her mother never had. She would never give into the loneliness and despair like her mother. She was never going to love like her.

She was just going to live and be free.

But hearing them make love had undone all the years of repression and avoidance. At first, she thought that it was Naru, giggling like some silly school girl in the manager's bedroom.

Naru had loved him since the beginning, Kitsune had surmised. So it was no strange leap to imagine her friend going to him, perhaps even making love to him, while the others were away.

"Good for you," Kitsune sighed, not knowing why her heart felt heavy. Curiosity, however, got the best of her and she wanted to see them – together. Feeling mischievous, Kitsune brought out her camera and was about to open the small peek hole that she had drilled in the wall the day that Keitaro had moved in when a thought struck her.

Naru is in Kyoto.

Then who could that be in Keitaro's room?

Why is Keitaro with someone other than Naru?

What's going on?

Kitsune's mind was in a flurry of thoughts and conjectures, trying to grapple with the evidence before her.

She could hear them, the paper thin walls offering little barrier to the sounds emanating from their actions. She could hear her, whoever she was.

The rage began to bubble in the pit of her belly, the furrow of her brow expressing the depth of her displeasure. She crawled to the peek hole and lifted the latch. Once she had identified the tramp, there would be no end to the evils that Kitsune would unleash on her. Already, her mind was working on a plan to hurt, humiliate, and eventually destroy Keitaro, the treacherous man who was betraying her best friend and the bitch in heat who had stolen him from them.

From her vantage point, she could see him on top of someone, his thrusting motions stirring her own repressed sexual desires. "No!" she screamed mentally, "he's going down for betraying us!"

She watched him, not knowing how much time had passed, making love to someone other than Naru – or herself. But his movements, his demeanor were unlike all the other men she saw plow into her mother, or the man that she had encountered in that bar all those years ago.

He was making love to her. He was caring and gentle. He was there for her, and she was obviously there for him.

"Am I jealous?" Kitsune asked, trying to stop from crying. But the tears came down in torrents when she finally saw the face of the one Keitaro had been making love with.

"Oh God!," Kitsune breathed, her stomach threatening to revolt, "not you." But her eyes could not be denied. She saw her, Motoko's face, bright red; her eyes clenched shut, her mouth moving, saying something. "I love you."

Kitsune crumbled to the floor, her resolve all but shattered. She wept. She was a child again.


End file.
